


There's mold on one of the tiles.

by Vaxine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Elderly Care, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Oneshot, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaxine/pseuds/Vaxine
Summary: At least one person here needs to chill.





	There's mold on one of the tiles.

Now is not the time or the place for chaos. REDACTED bounces the rubber ball carefully one, two, three times in a neverending rhythm of hollow thuds. The sound echoes along the small, silent bathroom. There is still the scent of waste, but it floats through the air vaguely, almost but not quite disguised by the scent of cheap hand soap.

REDACTED numbly thinks of another time, trying to ignore the feeling that is trying to bloom, slowly being crushed over the growing layer of ice spreading over her chest. Sitting in a wheelchair in the flat shower is her grandmother. Naked and wet and for once shockingly silent.

Her room is in front of the dining area. The days that she keeps the bedroom door open during breakfast or dinner, REDACTED eats off to one side to avoid making eye contact. Her stare always pierces into REDACTED'S eyes and is always followed by some sort of request. The sound of her voice fills REDACTED with a small seed of rage every time she hears it.

Now she seems small and impassive. Not pitiful or pathetic, but just there. A fixture. She stares at the ground and does nothing. Her hair clings to her temples. She looks like she's praying. REDACTED'S ball hits an uneven point in the linoleum floor and bounces to the left, but she plucks it out of midair and resumes bouncing it with a strained air of nonchalance.

~

"Is there anywhere she DIDN'T shit?" says her father from her grandmother's room. He's cleaning up the mess there while her grandmother waits in the bathroom.

"No matter what, just take me there." States her grandmother resolutely, again, just like she did seven minutes ago. REDACTED stops bouncing the ball for just a moment. "Dad is cleaning your room. When Dad is finished cleaning your room, I'll take you there,” she knows her grandmother is talking about her room. Her grandmother looks at her once more with those eyes like deep pits. REDACTED hates those eyes. "No matter what, take me there," she repeats, as if REDACTED hadn't understood her the first time.

REDACTED doesn't answer. She continues to bounce the ball. Her grandmother stays quiet and stares at the floor. REDACTED watches a water droplet fall off the arm of her grandmother's wheelchair and drip onto the floor.

Her Dad comes in. He puts her grandmother's old dirty diaper in a bag and hands it to her, "Can you take care of this?" The bag is stained in feces. "Grab it by the tip," he offers. 

She grabs it by the tip and walks outside and throws it in the trash can before slamming the lid back on. When she comes back her Dad has managed to clothe her grandmother. He leaves to make her bed so she can sleep. REDACTED resumes her position, leaning against the bathroom counter, and bounces the ball once again.

“I need you to take me there," repeats her grandmother, yet again. "Dad is cleaning your room. When Dad is finished, I'll take you there," REDACTED repeats for what seems like the hundredth time. She’s reminded not of a broken record but of a looping clip. Repeating the same action smoothly and in an unending sequence. "Remember," calls her Dad from the room, "don't let her come over until I'm done."

"…Yeah," REDACTED says.

But her grandmother doesn't stop. "I need to do..." REDACTED keeps bouncing her ball. "I need to..."

"..."

"..."

"......" She purses her lips. "What do I need to do?" she asks. It sounds more like a statement than a question "I need to do something." She looks at REDACTED as if she expects her to have the answer. As if she had asked the question.

REDACTED does not cease to bounce the ball. She wants to throw it. She's done it before.

~

In the silence of her room, REDACTED has thrown the ball against walls, the ground, the bedside table. The ball has bounced all over her room, occasionally hitting her body, once hitting her face.

REDACTED never cared. She always picked up the ball and threw it harder. Threw it until she was sure her throwing arm was going to scream the next day with every tiny motion.

~

"REDACTED," calls out her father. REDACTED is snapped out of her reverie and sees that he is trying to roll her grandmother out of the bathroom. 

She gets out of the way and sits on the couch. Her face is stone as they roll by, more like a prison guard than a kid. Her Dad's face is red and his lips are sucked between his teeth so that his mouth forms a hard line. At times like this REDACTED thinks that her father is like a car with no driver- furious and heavy and unreasonable, like he’s going to crush everything in his path. He takes a deep breath yet throws the door open. It almost slams into REDACTED'S face before he catches it. "Sorry," he murmurs.

They rush past. REDACTED cannot throw the ball against the ground and watch it smash into the ceiling fan. 'What's wrong with me?' she thinks. Her face is still and serene. 'When did I become so cold?'

She tries to crush the ball between her fingers, but she's not strong enough for that. She settles for squeezing it before letting it roll off her palm and bounce to an unknown corner of the living room.

Despite thinking that, she doesn't say a word.


End file.
